Laced
by Kato Molotov
Summary: [7x03-inspired one shot.] She thinks he quite deserves a present of his own. Presents need wrapping. Presents like to be unwrapped.


A case solved. Resolution. Removal of distractions. Reconnection, reduction of the world back to she and him, he and her. Three long months – two, of him missing; one, an excruciating process of healing and reassuring and moving forward – and two days of unending interruption, everything the universe could throw at them couldn't stop their reunion. It just delayed it a little while.

The first time was explosive, an unabashed feast of the starving as she claimed him back from whatever hell he's been in, rode him into oblivion reached with an expediency they'd be embarrassed by if not for just how long it's been, for just how much they needed each other and needed this last piece of their bond back. The second, slow and tender, apology and love laced in every touch, unhurried and with no goal besides re-establishment. And the third? The third time, just as the grey light of a dreary autumn day peeked through the heavy blinds of their bedroom after a full night of sleep, was a welcome home – all the way home – at last, bubbling laughter and playful fighting for dominance that said they'd never part again, an expression of innocence found and quiet joy.

She wakes before him to shower, winking saucily on her way out when he gives her ass a wet slap and watching just a moment in appreciation at the view of him, naked and stepping into the warm spray.

Making her way to the grand master closet, inspiration strikes. She planned to don the get-up he presented to her at Valentine's day, but she thinks he quite deserves a present of his own. Presents need wrapping. Presents like to be unwrapped.

It was something she bought for the honeymoon that wasn't, but this is almost better.

Rolling the wooden step-stool out, she can barely reach the boot-sized shoebox on top of the luggage, inconspicuous and undisturbed from when she left it there, the hopes for its use nearly completely crushed. It was one of the things she held onto, a way to bind herself to hope, to keep him alive in her mind. And now its day has finally come.

Kate slips into the thong first, purple satin trimmed in pretty black lace, she shivers with expectant delight at the slight dampness that floods it on first contact with her sex. Admiring herself in the mirror for a moment, she notes her limited time and hurries, removing the carefully-folded stockings and suspenders from the box next. She pulls them over the stilts of her legs, the sinewy curves of her calves to the delicate softness of her inner-thigh. The garment makes her skin stand out pale-moonlight against the black matte of the stockings. She leaves the suspenders for later.

The pièce de résistance lies comfortably in the box, and her mouth runs dry on examination of it. Deep purple, almost black. Velvet vines of aubergine laid over black-plum silk, lightning strikes of shimmery, silver-lilac piping, all cinched by black leather laced in and out, in and out, of shiny silver fasteners. He's going to need another shower. She probably will too, if the hum low in her belly at the mere sight of the thing is any clue.

She had to look up a tutorial on the internet of how to put the thing on, when she first bought it, not wanting to fumble with it like a fool during their honeymoon. Thus, it is with some surprise, as she delicately lifts the corset from its resting place, that she remembers exactly what to do. Wrapping the bodice loosely around her waist and fastening the front hooks into their little silver eyes, she tightens it only enough to keep it from falling from her. Castle likes wrapping presents just as much as opening them, after all. A lazy morning with no rush for work will nearly always find him dressing her.

If the way he looks when she wears her lace-up leather boots is heat, he'll test the theory of spontaneous human combustion to its logical and illogical limit today. She's not worn one before, but she knows he'll love it. Corsets are a study in contrasts, she thinks. Decadent display and domesticated discipline. Old-fashioned and dangerously edgy. Familiar and forbidden. Hidden in public and begging to be seen in private.

The water cuts off from the bathroom, and Kate snaps the suspenders to the bottom of the bodice quickly before she scurries to her place. Long, stocking-clad legs drape oh-so-casually over the leather chair in the corner of his office. She selects a book from the shelf that holds the first print of each of his books – Flowers for Your Grave, how absolutely fortuitous – and feigns interest, kicking a foot idly and waiting for him to dress and emerge from the closet.

She considered ambushing him straight out of the shower, but it turns out she quite likes unwrapping presents too. Contrary to their normal balance of his impulsivity with her patience, she's much more a rip-the-paper-off kind of girl. When she was five, her mother shared with her the wonderful secret of turning the Lucky Charms box upside down to find the toy inside without having to eat through the whole box, and this lesson began a lifetime of impatience with unnecessary procedure to get to the prize. Castle, however, takes his time, savoring the mystery, making certain the paper comes off in one piece, paying equal attention to each corner.

She hopes sincerely that these patterns will be respected this morning.

"Beckett?" he calls from the closet, "are you wearing those leather boots again without letting me help you into them?"

An evil grin spreads left to right across her face.

"I'm in the office, Castle," she taunts coyly, "why don't you come help me?"

The footfalls come haphazard and heavy as he literally stumbles over himself to get to her quickly. He's not as dressed as she'd like – his trousers and shoes in place, but only a black undershirt – but she can work with it. She can definitely work with the mouth that hangs open as he takes in her attire.

"Hey," Kate purrs. "Got a present for you."

Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, Castle's gaze roams over her with abject longing mixed headily with the intoxication of lust. She finds the self-conscious part of her entirely silent. She looks good. She knows it. His reaction is just icing on her very pretty cake.

"Stand," Castle commands after long moments, finally able to harness his voice. He's not to be argued with, but she can certainly test him. She feigns reading a second longer before dog-earing a page and putting it back with its shelfmates, taking time and precision to align the spines. Castle's frustrated growl is audible.

Swinging her legs back around and watching him follow their movement, she rises on confident legs, stilling for his assessment and inspection with a hand on her hip and a saucy grin still in place. The bluefire heat of his eyes burns imaginary patterns of flames up her exposed skin, intense and unrelenting. He takes a decisive step toward her. She matches it, staring her playful defiance to him. There's no doubt that he's thoroughly in charge now, just as intended, but that doesn't mean she'll not test her limits. They wouldn't be them if she didn't.

"A little help here, Castle?" she teases, pleased at the murmured curse that escapes on an exhale.

"Turn around," he orders, his tone telling her he won't be denied her compliance. She spins on her toes for him like an obscene porcelain ballerina on a pedestal, and she feels every bit a doll. A toy to be played with, a thing to be touched and admired. She slows, then, coming to a creeping halt with her back to him, giving him access and permission to the laces.

He begins at the top with the first lace, tugging the ends experimentally through their grommets, and her breath hitches at the first hint of tightening around her bust. Her nipples harden to stiff points under the thick suppressing material of the corset, straining against it as he pulls the laces tight.

Maintaining the pressure on the first stitch, Castle lets it alone only as the second row is brought to tension, the constriction of her breasts becoming real. His heavy breathing behind her is a soundtrack of controlled lust played in perfect time to the delicate ballet of his deft digits, pulling her tighter and winding her higher with every leather pull of lace.

Constrained and increasingly constricted, she goes to take a deep breath and finds her chest protesting the act. Shorter, choppier breaths will suffice, but not for long. Pulling the laces together in a quick-release, Castle halts momentarily.

"Bedroom," he manages out, his voice low and gravelly. She complies on shaky legs, far too affected already by the molten heat spreading throughout her body from between her thighs. Stopping her in front of the floor-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, Castle quickly resumes his task and Kate marvels at this new way to stun her loquacious fiancé into silence. He's not managed a full sentence at all. Pressing himself to her back, the thick press of his confined cock into the cleft of her ass sends shivers through her.

A particularly sharp yank on the leather causes her to hiss an exhale, and the tightening continues. She watches in the mirror with fascination as her body transforms. Breasts, typically minimized and without much to have to minimize in the first place, round over the top of the bust, creamy skin framed with rich black-purple. Her trim waist is highlighted, her hips look curvier and follow the luscious contour of the corset that flares out before ending, just a sliver of pale-moonlight skin peeking through before the trim of her thong.

He jerks on the laces one more time with a rough pant that has nothing to do with physical exertion. Castle finishes off his task with a sigh of both accomplishment and disappointment at its end, fastening the whole pretty package with a bow.

Mirror-her looks at them both, at the expression that could burn a city to ashes in his eyes, at the way her mouth hangs slightly open as she gasps shallowly both for constriction and arousal. The pretty ensemble, selected initially solely for his delectation, surprises her in how much it turns her on, too. It's always a powerful feeling to make him want her – not that she has to do much; he's been known to jump her even when she's got a cold and is hanging around in her NYPD hoodie and old shorts, after all – but this is entirely new. It comes from making him grow hard and his breathing grow as shallow as hers, yes, but now it comes from within, too. Intensely feminine and feeling the raw power in that is intoxicating. To take joy in being a woman in this way is not something her way of life permits often. She finds her ways, in the clothes she selects and the pugnacious four-inch fuck-me heels she loves to wear despite their potential for ridicule on the job (whatever; she can still outrun 95-percent of the officers, so nobody dares complain) but it's rare she's allowed to revel in it this obviously.

Hands snake their way into her hair, stopping to brush the shell of her ear before hesitating momentarily. Heart clenching, she knows on instinct what it's about. He'd always pulled the length of her hair to one side, before. With four inches of her hair gone, it doesn't fall over her shoulder the way it used to. She cut it one morning with a pair of household scissors in a fit of grief when she looked in this very mirror and for a moment, expected him to be there to brush her hair out of her way. It was his absence in those little rituals that hurt the worst.

"I know," she murmurs, bringing her fingers up behind her to stroke his face. "I know. I'll grow it out again."

Mirror-Castle's eyes slide closed for a moment and he leans into her touch like a cat seeking touch.

"I like it," he says finally. "I like your hair any way you have it."

From any other man it would seem like an empty placation, an offhanded remark in the same vein as a dismissive non-reply to a do-I-look-fat-in-this trap of a question, but the earnestness in his eyes and voice fill her with affection and wonder. Wonder, that he's been through so much, that the world has shifted underneath his feet, and yet he's not trying to run from it any more. Not trying to put things back as they were, nor mourning the loss of what might have been. The changes may still catch him by surprise, but she realizes, that doesn't mean he's not ready – _enthusiastically_ ready – to move forward and meet what comes.

Her heart beats steadily but her lungs can't seem to get their usual drink of air, the satin embrace of the corset working its magic and he moves closer, unable to resist, and she can't either, tilting her head back in need and invitation of his kiss. He obliges gladly, his hands sliding over the tightly-laced bodice, gripping momentarily at her waist, gliding past the flare of her hips until he meets the bare skin of her outer-thighs. Pushing underneath the tightness of the garment, his fingers grip her hips roughly, in a way that's sure to leave marks – ones she's missed the last three months, dearly – and a moan escapes from her into his mouth, lost in the slow-grinding dance of their tongues.

They make out slowly and passionately, her arm wrapping around the back of his neck behind her, his confining her with all the strength and gentleness in the world. Her head begins to spin a bit and she's dizzy with both desire and the shallowness of her breath. It's an unexpectedly lovely sensation. She knows she's in no danger, her breathing's not that restricted, but it's enough to make her pleasantly lightheaded and hypersensitive to his touch. He breaks their kis, apologizing with a suckle to the back of her neck and a wicked smirk to her reflection.

There's a moment, then, when he stares at her and she at him, a sensuous fight neither will call win or loss, but he ends it first, sinking with a slight cringe to his knees and spinning her to face him, but not before pressing a kiss and leaving a bite to the lightly curved cheek of her ass in a way that makes her gasp for air she can't find.

"I'm going to taste you now, Beckett," he states matter-of-factly. She barely has time to process this statement of intent before his hands clasp round her thighs, urging her legs apart and she dimly complies. His mouth closes over her, sucking her already wet center through the lace of her panties, the sensation so overwhelming after so long without it that – in partnership with the restriction of the corset – it doubles her over, forces her to brace her palm on his shoulder, her free hand thrusting into his hair for comfort. One and two tension-snapping releases of the suspenders, three and four, and he's dragging the sodden scrap of lace down her legs with maddening leisure as she stares down at him, his wicked eyes never leaving hers.

She steps out of her panties and waits expectantly for the return of his mouth, but it doesn't come immediately. Instead, he drags his big fingers through her slickened folds, gathering up the sweet-tart fluids that flow readily, another flare of desire bringing her breathlessly curling into herself as she watches him suck two thick digits into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the taste of her. Impulsively, she rips his hand away, cleaning what's left, crying out in her dazed state when he forces his tongue into her without preamble.

Orgasm hitting her instantaneously, she screams his name, pulls his hair as she grasps at something – anything – to keep her upright. Her body constricts all on its own, winds so tight it breaks, sending her scattering to pieces and her ripe form trembling with waves of pleasure-pain. Being bent at the waist makes the difficult task of getting oxygen even moreso, and at last she jerks back, jutting her chest out and trying to take deep breaths, but she just fucking _can't._ All she can do is push her cunt to his mouth, blindly seeking more while wanting to pull away from too-much in the same moment. He decides for her. Too-much it is. Castle is relentless. He flicks his tongue rapidly against her clit and her knees buckle from underneath her with the force of a second orgasm she doesn't see coming – can't predict in the slightest – before the first has even broken.

Sinking to the floor with a sharp inhale and a pitiful whine, she receives a rough growl from her lover, irritated at his succulent treat being taken from his mouth too soon. Fingers fisting in her hair again, he drags her forward for a rough kiss. The button of his jeans is stubborn and she lets out a breathless exclamation of ire, despising it from keeping her from her present a second longer. Finally it budges and she yanks the zipper down with no finesse, shoving his jeans down and watching his blood-darkened, swollen cock spring free.

Weakly, she helps him from his undershirt, seizing it and flinging it onto the bed somewhere behind them. Regaining some composure with the ceasefire of his assault, she examines him, watches the free rise and fall of his chest in contrast to hers, the sharp movements of the short breaths she can manage accentuating her breasts. She moans quietly at the barely-controlled look in his eyes, inky navy and wide; the barest shimmer of wetness around his mouth from what he's just done to her. The grip he has on her hair never falters, and before she's had time to gather her pieces back together, he's back on her.

Castle yanks her knees apart, the position she's in only tightening the corset around her as her hips shift to display the pink of her pussy to him. He grunts thickly, cupping her sex with one hand just long enough to set off another searing aftershock and soak his palm in her sweet-tangerine slickness. The writer strokes himself lewdly, his eyes never leaving hers, before moving the hand in her hair down to her dripping, grasping heat, pushing two fingers into her and circling her clit with his thumb. He sets a rough pace, fingers fucking her roughly, training her on what's to come, and it's all too much.

She's still too full and sensitive from the first two and he's showing her no mercy. It's all she can do just to keep upright and emit a steady stream of whimpers mixed with incoherent pleas: begging him to stop, begging him not to stop, begging him to fuck her already, begging him to make her come.

"Come, then!" he snarls at her, the raggedness of his treatment to his cock saying he's not far behind, "come, now, Kate!"

The world fuzzes out into darkness with a curl of his fingers.

The next thing she's aware of is her cheek pressed into the fibers of the rug, searching for any air to replace what's been squeezed out of her lungs by the constriction of her breasts and waist and the force of the orgasms. He's blurry in her vision, but unmoving and watching her quietly, his fingers remained curled inside her. Kate manages a frail smile of enervation, her eyes flickering to the now-stilled hand on his swollen cock.

"Please," she manages, because it's all she can think, all she can say. He complies, unable to deny her, unwilling to be denied himself.

Moving with a grace she sees in him only when fighting or fucking, he's behind her in an instant, his knees mercifully cushioned by the soft rug she's laid on. Castle grabs her hips, smiling at her devilish and dark in the mirror, pulling her onto her hands and knees. She's transfixed by the way they look, the way the corset and stockings frame her pussy, bright pink and dripping, her fluids run all over her thighs.

Jointing his hips to the slender curve of her ass, he positions himself and spreads her with his blunt head, setting off spasms and making her moan softly as she struggles to keep her head up. Evidently he is displeased when she lets it drop, pulling her head up by her hair again and forcing her to watch them, watch his thick cock spread her and disappear inside her, watch her reflection gaze at his with the sinful combination of adoration and arousal, all topped off with a hint of her ever-present fire.

"You like this, Beckett?" Castle rasps, the arm around her waist and hips holding her immobile, binding overtop of binding, as he slowly thrusts in and out of her. "You like being all wrapped up for me with a bow on top?"

God, does she ever. Everything is heightened, tight. His hand in her hair, the squeezing of her breasts, the pressure against her nipples, the cinching at her waist, the anchor of his arm around her hips. Watching his cock disappear into the constriction of her cunt like she's encased in the constriction of her new favorite toy, it's almost too much by itself.

"Yesss..." she hisses, "if you're a good boy I'll let you unwrap me too."

Raising her by his hold on her hair, he brings her upright, her back flush against his chest with only his arm holding her up as he fucks her. Her heart beats rapidly in its cage, she feels its thick pulse absolutely everywhere now: her lips, her throat, her pussy, her fingertips. They're stunning together – they always are – but she had no idea, _no idea,_ what a difference this bit of satin and velvet and leather would make, how perfectly it would showcase her, how powerful it made her feel even while he was thoroughly in charge.

"What would I have to do to earn that," - a particularly rough thrust that elicits a short scream from her - "_privilege?_"

She growls, not coherent enough now from the swimming in her head, the burn of desire radiating through her body from where they're joined, the burning throb of her pussy and clit, the need for _more._

"Just fuck me, Castle," she resorts to begging again, "god, hard, please, I nee-" her attempt at keeping up their banter cuts off into a staccato of winded screams as he complies instantly with her request, setting a brutal pace and quickly finding the spot deep inside her that shuts her up every time. He pounds into her with abandon, never closing his eyes, watching them in the mirror. The way his cock sticks out of her, the curl of his lips into something between a snarl and a grin, the sheen of sweat covering them both, the way she's spread for him, the tasteful pornography of the corset; such a pretty picture do they paint. They rock together, focused on the pictures they're playing in front of them, the rhythm of him into her.

Thrusting harder, the slap of his hips to her ass joins the chorus of their moans, the wet sounds of their connection, the filth that pours from his mouth as he stares directly at them. She knows he's close, knows he's barreling towards his end, knows he's going to come in her and god she wants it, needs it, can't wait for the feeling of his hot brand inside of her.

"Gonna come in you, baby," Castle warns arrogantly, "my pretty little toy, wrapped up like Christmas morning," the sheer possession and pride he has for her makes her clench around him, a strike of his thick head inside her is all it takes to send her spiraling back into airless oblivion, the edges of the world fizzing black again.

"Please Castle," she sobs, managing only a whisper in her state, "please, come, I want your come, make your fucktoy come..."

He suffocates her body in his grip, an explosive reaction to hearing her call herself his fucktoy, bringing a loud, animalistic growl out of him as he comes, pounding into her roughly the whole time as his release coats her, overflows, forced out with every thrust.

"God Kate," he grinds out raggedly, hips still jerking erratically in time with the last of his release, determined not to deprive her of a single drop, "so fucking good, sweetheart..." the tenderness returns to him as they begin to come down. He releases his grip in her hair, stroking her cheek, and finally she lets her eyes close when he begins tracing the slope of her nose, an act he knows from experience always calms her, makes her feel cherished.

All she can do is nod tiredly, comply bonelessly when he sits back on his legs, his chest supporting her upper body while a hand snakes into the non-existent space between them, yanking the leather laces undone and allowing the corset to loosen at last. She sighs with relief and the oxygen floods back into her good-sore body, and she finds the energy to seek him blindly.

His lips greet hers, soft and sweet, and Kate manages to shift her legs out from under her, his knees parting in invitation for her to settle between them and simply enjoy the comfort of each others' presence as they come down.

* * *

><p>Much later, they manage to find the strength to rise, though only to move as far as their hopelessly-rumpled bed. He helps her out of the corset with the precision and childlike excitement she anticipated, uncovering her slowly. When she's bare at last, he works carefully, folding the garment lovingly and admiring the detail of the piece before putting it on the bedside table with the stockings she's toed off with a haste that made him scowl with feigned disapproval.<p>

She cranes her neck back, seeking him again, and he rushes to comply, breathes the air of life and hope and joy back into her with a tender stroke into her mouth. His still-shaking fingers playing on the side of her face. Letting him cradle her as they make out lazily there in the mid-morning gloom, every slide of their twisting tongues laced with love and tenderness that aches, she finds herself infinitely glad she saved this pleasure for now. Though it's not an occasion she ever planned on having to wait for, it was worth the wait. He's worth the wait, always has been, will be a thousand times over.

When they finally come up for air, Castle has only one thing to say about it.

"Best present ever."

* * *

><p><em>I have a million other things to write and do, but after that throwaway comment in 7x03 about what he got her for Valentine's day, this one jumped at me and screamed at me to write it. Not where I planned to go, but it was just so much more fun to write a surprise for him and this is what happened.<em>

_Comments, questions, concerns, complaints and constructive criticism are much appreciated, signed ones always responded to._


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